From Rude Rural Rhymes by Bob Adams, New York: The Macmillan Company; 1925; pp. 139-140.
FACES
O I maintain a baby face
Shows not a sign of sin or grace,
Shows no expression any place.
Of course, you know, I would not dare
To say that if his ma were there.
But this I mean, that every day,
He builds his face at work or play.
That every action, mean or fine,
Will leave upon the same a line.
So day by day as on we plug,
We’re each one building up a mug.
O gentle maiden, at a glance,
E’en in your youthful countenance,
I see the lines of petulance.
I’m sure no wise, discerning gents
Would marry you for fifty cents.
For well they see, when you are older,
You’ll be a nagger and a scolder.
O brother, lines of dissipation
Have marked your face with their narration.
For be our features dark or fair,
Just what we are is written there.
If onward into life you’d shove,
[140]
A kindly face that all can love,
You must be gentle in your heart
And give your looks a better start.
O youngsters, e’er it’s yet too late,
Carve better lines upon your pate,
For you are living still in clover,
And need not work your faces over.
And then, when you are old and hard,
Like this bald, reckless, feckless bard,
Your jib will show, I hope, gee whiz,
A darn sight better life than his.
But he is trying, O my brothers,
To add new lines above the others,
As day by day he jerks his pen
In love for all his fellow men.
He puts no trust in patent dopes,
But for his features still has hopes.
O let us all with naught to daunt
Build up our face the way we want.